Page 113 of Duke of Iron
“Iam not going,” May said. She planted her heels on the carriage step and refused to budge. “I will be sick, or embarrassing, or both, and then you will regret it.”
“You will do neither,” said April, tugging the lapel of May’s coat into a less funereal configuration. “You are going to smile and be charming and not think about anything except how delightful this bonnet is.” She brandished the item tied with an absurd amount of blue ribbon. “Or I will eat it. Bow and all.”
“Let her eat it,” said June from inside the carriage. “Then we’ll see what the baby thinks of her taste in hats.”
April rolled her eyes and physically hoisted May into the vehicle. “You have not left the house in two days, and you are beginning to smell like damp muslin. We are going shopping. This is not a negotiation.”
May slumped into the seat, folded her arms, and stared straight ahead. “I think it is very premature to be shopping for a baby who has not yet been born.”
June snorted. “Besides,” said April, “if we wait until the birth, you know Mother will monopolize the entire process. She will send an army of seamstresses and bully the staff, and set up a pop-up christening three weeks in advance.”
May opened her mouth, then realized April was, for once, completely correct. “You are a monster,” May conceded.
“That is why I am the favorite,” April replied.
The driver snapped the reins, and the carriage lurched forward. May kept her eyes on the window and attempted to count the houses as they blurred past, but her vision was still pink and swollen from the previous night, and all the shapes ran together like watercolor.
April did not allow the silence to linger. “Are you going to tell us what happened, or will we be forced to guess?”
“There is nothing to tell.” May pressed a hand to her nose, willing away another sneeze.
June reached over and patted her knee. “He is an idiot, darling. That is the first and only rule of men. They are idiots, and you cannot reason them into intelligence.”
“He is not an idiot,” May muttered.
April exchanged a look with June over May’s head. “He is more of an idiot than Theo, and that is a feat.”
“Thank you,” May said, “for the robust defense of my marriage.”
April leaned in, softening her voice. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, May. I wish you would let yourself be weak now and then. It is exhausting, watching you hold up the ceiling for everyone else.”
“I am not strong,” May said. “I am the exact opposite.”
“You are both,” said June. “But also, if you do not tell us, I am going to guess that he has run off with the pastry girl and you have taken a vow of vengeance.”
May blinked. “Penelope? She is sixteen, and anyway, she is in love with the baker’s apprentice.”
“I think that is rather quaint,” said June.
May laughed, which she had not meant to do, and the sound was so unfamiliar that all three sisters startled.
April grinned. “There she is. I knew you were not dead inside.”
May snatched the ribboned parcel and whacked April on the arm with it. “You are the worst person in England.”
The carriage drew up to the curb with a theatrical rattle. A footman opened the door, and May started to clamber out, only to realize, mid-step, that they were not at any shop she recognized.
She turned to her sisters. “Where are we?”
April blinked innocently. “Mayfair, of course.”
“Is there a haberdashery here?” May asked. “This is residential. That is a house.” She pointed at the edifice directly ahead—four stories of honeyed stone, its windows wreathed in late-blooming clematis, the brass knocker on the door catching the sun.
“It is a very exclusive haberdashery,” said June, slipping her arm through May’s and leading her toward the steps.
May dug in her heels, but April came around and blocked her retreat. “I am not going inside a stranger’s house,” May said. “I have done enough trespassing for one lifetime.”
June rolled her eyes. “It’s not a stranger’s house. It’s yours.”
